Prom Queen of Disaster by Joseph James Hunt

sent you a text last night, she wants to know what you’re doing today,” he said.
    “She’ll want to go for lunch,” I said. “What even happened?” He handed me my phone from the bedside table. I noticed my clutch bag on the side with it. I reached for my neckline. “What happened to the necklace?”
    “Don’t worry,” he said, with a boyish smile. “It’s in your bag. I folded your clothes too.”
    I was no heart expert, but mine skipped a beat at the thought of losing it. I kissed him hard on the lips. “I love you,” I said. Much of his bedroom was a mess, except for the chair beside his desk where he’d folded my clothes neatly.
    “Had to clean those too,” he said, nodding to the shoes. “It’s fine, my mom’s been sick too many times in her shoes, I know how to remove the evidence .” He laughed.
    “Thank you,” I said, squeezing him against my body.
    I looked through all the texts on my phone. The light was blinding as names scrolled by; my mom had messaged me after Dylan had told her I was at a sleepover, she told me to have fun. The rest were group messages, mainly Char beginning a witch hunt for the person who’d spiked the punch bowls.
    Ava and Libby had been hit too. They’d posted pictures of the aftermath. Images of puke puddles and stained clothing. I replied to them. Dylan took care of me. Slept at his house .
    Social media feeds were a frenzy, everyone asking if we were okay. Some website news pages had even posted the information on their sites, asking for anyone with information to come forward. Char had even given a statement to a few of them, sharing the links alongside a picture they’d taken of Char as a pageant toddler.
    “It was buzzing all night,” he said.
    “Yeah, Ava and Libby were ill too. I think they drank more than me,” I said. “They’re blaming the committee.”
    Dylan sighed. “I think it was.” He hummed. “They had access to it.”
    My eyes scrolled the next couple of text messages as they flickered across the screen. “Shit!” I sat upright in bed, pulling the comforter up to my chest. “Some of the juniors and sophomores are talking about suing the school.”
    He laughed. “Your mom would probably sue too if she saw you,” he said.
    “That bad?”
    “You were drunk,” he said. “Like, really drunk, from one drink. I pulled the roof of the car and locked the doors while I went to get food.”
    My cheeks felt warm in thought of needing to be locked in the car. “We still have winter formal,” I said. “I’ll make sure we don’t drink anything unless it’s from a sealed bottle.”
    “We do,” he said, reaching out for his phone.
    “I think the girls want a catch-up,” I said. “Are there any of my clothes here?”
    He nodded. “Yeah, grab a shower, I’ll get them for you.”
    “Which clothes are they?”
    He shrugged. “Whichever ones you left last time. Skirt and a top, I think, they’re clean, so it’s better than putting your dress back on.”
    “Underwear?”
    “If you left them here, then yeah,” he said.
    I climbed out of the bed, wearing only a thin sheet I’d wrapped around myself. I had panties on, I’d worn a strapless bra, but it hadn’t held much up anyway. The thought made me smile as I stood in the doorway of Dylan’s bedroom. “I’ll be 5 minutes,” I said, holding a hand up.
    “I’ll find them and leave them in the bathroom,” he said.
    “Your dad’s not home is he?” I asked. “Don’t want him coming in.”
    Dylan laughed, almost like it was the funniest thing I’d ever said. But if his dad was home, it was possible. “No, he’s away for the weekend. I told you.”
    I hummed and smiled. “See you in five.”
    I avoided washing my hair. God forbid the process of shampooing, conditioning, blow drying, and then straightening. I also highly doubted Dylan, who lived alone with his father, would have a blow dryer or a flat iron. The only body wash they had smelled like men’s locker rooms,